[220] “Have you come to make a report? No doubt you’ve asked for this meeting to inform us of an arrest.”
“No,” said Pendergast. “I’m sorry, no arrests. Frankly, Dr. Wright, we’ve made very little progress. Despite what Ms. Rickman has been telling the newspapers.”
He showed them the newspaper’s headline: ARREST NEAR IN “MUSEUM BEAST” MURDERS.
There was a short silence. Pendergast folded the paper and carefully placed it on the mantelpiece.
“What’s the problem?” asked Wright. “I don’t understand what’s taking so long.”
“There are many problems, as you are no doubt aware,” said Pendergast. “But I’m not really here to brief you on the case. It’s enough if I remind you simply that a dangerous serial killer remains loose in the Museum. We have no reason to believe he has stopped killing. As far as we know, all his killings have been nocturnal. In other words, after 5 P.M. As the special agent in charge of this investigation, I’m regretfully informing you that the curfew we’ve set up must remain in force until such time as the killer is found. There will be no exceptions.”
“The opening. … Rickman bleated.
“The opening will have to be postponed. It may be for a week, it may be for a month. I can’t make any promises, I’m afraid. I’m very sorry.”
Wright stood up, his face livid. “You said the opening could go on as scheduled provided there were no more killings. That was our agreement.”
“I made no agreement with you, Doctor,” Pendergast said mildly. “I’m afraid we are no closer to catching the murderer than we were at the beginning of the week.” He gestured toward the newspaper on the mantle. “Headlines like these make people complacent, incautious. The opening would probably be very well attended. Thousands of people, in the Museum after dark ...” He shook his head. “I have no other choice.”
[221] Wright stared at the agent in disbelief. “Because of your incompetence, you expect us to delay the opening, and do the Museum irreparable harm in the process? The answer is no.”
Pendergast, unruffled, walked forward into the center of the room. “Forgive me, Dr. Wright, if I didn’t make myself clear. I’m not here to ask your permission; I’m merely notifying you of my decision.”
“Right,” the Director answered, his voice shaking. “I see. You can’t do your own job, but you still want to tell me how to do mine. Do you have any idea what delaying the opening would do to our exhibition? Do you know what kind of message it would send to the public? Well, Pendergast, I’m not going to allow it.”
Pendergast stared steadily at Wright. “Any unauthorized personnel found on the premises after five o’clock will be arrested and charged with trespassing at a scene of crime. This is a misdemeanor. Second violations will be charged with obstruction of justice, which is a felony, Dr. Wright. I trust I make myself sufficiently clear?”
“The only thing that’s clear right now is your path to the door,” Wright said, his voice rising. “It’s unobstructed. Please take it.”
Pendergast nodded. “Gentlemen. Ma’am.” Then he turned around and moved silently out of the room.
Closing the door quietly, Pendergast stopped for a moment in the Director’s outer office. Then, staring at the door, he quoted,
So I return rebuk’d to my content,
And gain by ills thrice more than I have spent.
Wright’s executive secretary stopped her gum chewing in mid-snap. “Howzat?” she inquired.
“No, Shakespeare,” Pendergast replied, heading for the elevator.
¯
[222] Inside, Wright fumbled at the telephone with shaking hands.
“What the hell happens now?” exploded Cuthbert. “I’ll be damned if a bloody policeman’s going to boot us out of our own Museum.”
“Cuthbert, be quiet,” said Wright. Then he spoke into the handset. “Get me Albany, right away.”
There was a silence while he was put on hold. Wright looked over the receiver at Cuthbert and Rickman, controlling his heavy breathing with an effort. “Time to call in some favors,” he said. “We’ll see who has the final word here: some inbred albino from the Delta, or the Director of the largest natural history museum in the world.”
= 32 =
The vegetation here is very unusual. The cycads and ferns look almost primordial. Too bad there isn’t time for more careful study. We’ve used a particularly resilient variety as packing material for the crates; feel free to let Jörgensen take a look, if he’s interested.
I fully expect to be with you at the Explorer’s Club a month from now, celebrating our success with a brace of dry martinis and a good Macanudo. Until then, I know I can entrust this material and my reputation to you.
Your colleague,
Whittlesey
Smithback looked up from the letter. “We can’t stay here. Let’s go to my office.”
His cubbyhole lay deep in a maze of overflow offices on the Museum’s ground level. The honeycomb [224] passages, full of noise and bustle, seemed a refreshing change to Margo after the damp, echoing basement corridors outside the Secure Area. They walked past a large green Dumpster overflowing with back issues of the Museum’s magazine. Outside Smithback’s office, a large bulletin board was plastered with a variety of irate letters from subscribers, for the amusement of the magazine staff.
Once before, hot on the trail of an issue of Sciencelong overdue from the periodical library, Margo had penetrated Smithback’s messy lair. It was as she remembered it: his desk a riot of photocopied articles, half-finished letters, Chinese take-out menus, and numerous books and journals the Museum’s libraries were no doubt very eager to find.
“Have a seat,” Smithback said, pushing a two-foot stack of paper brusquely off a chair. He closed the door, then walked around his desk to an ancient bentwood rocker. Paper crackled beneath his feet.
“Okay,” he said in a low tone. “Now, you’re sure the journal wasn’t there?”
“I told you, the only crate I had a chance to look at was the one Whittlesey packed himself. But it wouldn’t have been in the others.”
Smithback examined the letter again. “Who’s this Montague the thing’s addressed to?” he asked.
“Don’t know,” Margo replied.
“How about Jörgensen?”
“Haven’t heard of him, either.”
Smithback pulled down the Museum’s telephone listing from a shelf. “No Montague here,” he murmured, flipping pages. “Aha! Here’s Jörgensen. Botany. Says he’s retired. How come he still has an office?”
“Not unusual in this place,” Margo replied. “Independently wealthy people with little else to fill up their time. Where’s his office?”
“Section forty-one, fourth floor,” Smithback said, [225] closing the book and dropping it on his desk. “Near the herbarium.” He stood up. “Let’s go.”
“Wait a minute, Smithback. It’s almost four o’clock. I should call Frock and let him know what ...”
“Later,” Smithback said, making for the door. “Come on, Lotus Blossom. My journalist’s nose hasn’t picked up a decent scent all afternoon.”
Jörgensen’s office was a small, windowless laboratory with a high ceiling. It held none of the plants or floral specimens Margo expected to see in a botanist’s lab. In fact, the room was empty except for a large workbench, a chair, and a coat rack. A drawer of the workbench was open, exposing a variety of worn tools. Jörgensen was bending over the workbench, fiddling with a small motor.
“Dr. Jörgensen?” Smithback asked.
The old man turned and gazed at Smithback. He was almost completely bald, with bushy white eyebrows overhanging intense eyes the color of bleached denim. He was bony and stooped but Margo thought he must be at least six feet four.
“Yes?” he said in a quiet voice.
Before Margo could stop him, Smithback handed Jörgensen the letter.
The man began reading, then started visibly. Without taking his eyes from the letter, he reached around for the battered chair and carefully eased himself into it.